A short story by Bibhuti Bhusan Bandopadhyay
I said aloud, making sure my wife would hear, that the rice-water that’s thrown out after cooking, with all that’s in it, well, whatever is nutritious is thrown out wit it. The sahibs don’t throw out the rice-water, the Japanese don’t throw out the rice-water.
My hints were lost on all in the family. I continued to have my nutrition-drained rice. I heard there was now enough for just two days.
And then, the beggars. Right from the morning, the voices, “Ma, a little rice!”. “Ma, a little rice-water please!” I don’t feel sympathy, just irritation and anger. We don’t have rice at home, and they just keep begging and begging, right from the morning. Rice is measured out carefully, and in the market, it is practically not available.
At thirty-seven rupees for rice, how long can I keep buying? Maybe I can barely manage for the family, but I can’t handle the nuisance of the beggars. Yet, I can’t say no to giving alms. Tradition binds me. In my childhood, in my village home in Palligram, I have seen no one ever refuse the traditional daily alms to the wandering beggars. From those days, I have picked up the tradition: I cannot refuse to give these daily alms. But now when the beggars come, I am irritated; if they don’t, perhaps it’s better.
That morning, in the small room, I was writing. The servant came in from his daily shopping, in his hand a small bundle. Had the women in the household asked him to get rice? Is the store empty? I said, “What’s in it?”
Rajan, the servant, was trying to hide the bundle as he was passing me. I saw from his look that my question had caught him unprepared. Scratching his head, he said, hesitantly, “Rice, sir.”
“Oh, how much?”
“Two seer of rice, sir. At the jeweller's shop. Control.”
“Oh, so now there’s Control here too. How much do they sell?”
“They will not allow more than two rupees worth, sir.”
This is not Bengal, it is Bihar. So now here too, there are Control shops. They will sell only up to two rupees worth of rice to each person. What’s this?
A beggar spoke outside, begging for rice. Rajan said, “No begging here; there’s no rice.”
While I wrote, I told him, “Give him a handful.”
Another one came, and another handful was given.
By nine o’clock, two more beggars had come. And they were given handfuls of rice, and they left.
Then, an old man’s voice was heard. By then, I was irritated.
I told Rajan, “Don’t give him.”
But I don’t know why, the old beggar delayed, he didn’t go, and he kept repeating his requests for rice, loudly. I was quite irritated and angry. I stepped out and told him sternly, “No begging here, go away, what’re you waiting for?”
The man was old, wearing a single dirty torn piece of cloth. In his hand was a mangled tin cup. He was clearly decrepit, but unlike the beggars in Bengal, he wasn’t skeletal.
Lifting his tin cup, he crawled, and said, “A little rice-water, please, I’m very hungry.”
Angry, I said, “What demands, eh! And that too, rice-water.”.
“Please give me a little, please.”
“Get lost! Get out! What demands! The cooking’s been done in the morning, and there’ll be rice-water kept for him.”
He went away, deeply disappointed.
Again, I went back to my writing. I didn’t think I had broken with my tradition. Like every other day as tradition demanded, I had given my daily alms. How many people could one give to?
The day grew hotter; I thought it was time for my bath. At this time, a middle-aged man, wearing a thin shawl, his feet covered in sandals, holding a bundle of bamboo sticks, stood by the window, and said, “Babu, are you people Brahmin?”
I looked up, and across the wire fence, and said, “Why, what do you want?”
He folded his hands, and said “To a Brahmin, namaskar.”
I too did my namaskar to him. “Where are you going?”
He said, “May I come inside please? I too am a Brahmin.”
“Yes, please do come in.”
He entered the house, but didn’t come to the verandah, he stood in the outer courtyard. He said, “I have something to say. I have been looking and looking for Brahmins, I couldn’t find any other house of Brahmins. I live in Nadasantipur. My relatives live in Musanabi. I have a young child with me. I have left him by the mango tree. Could we get some water to drink?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Why don’t you bring your son?”
The child too came. As soon as I saw them, I realized that they too were poverty-stricken beggars, but they couldn’t beg for food. I said, “You haven’t had your meal yet, it’s too late, where will you go? Why don’t you have a little dal-rice with us?”
“No, no. We just need some water and then we’ll go, we won’t trouble you any more.. Musanabi… my nephew is there …”
“Oh, come now, sit, sit, Musanabi is six miles from here, that’s too far.”
I refused to let them leave without lunch. I made sure both of them ate and rested, and they left only in the late afternoon.
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That night, as I went to bed, I suddenly began to think, how was this? When the old beggar came asking for rice-water, I was angry with him, and told him to get lost. But when the Brahmin from Nadasantipur came, I treated them so well, I fed them well. I didn’t even think of saving up the rice! Why does this happen?
After some thought, I realized that the beggar was not the same class as me. I could not imagine myself as the old decrepit beggar.
But in my mind, I could easily imagine myself as the poor Brahmin from Nadasantipur.
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